


The Sexorcism of Jillian Holtzmann, PhD

by kokiyas



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Ghost Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8348818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokiyas/pseuds/kokiyas
Summary: Really, it wasn’t like not taunting ghosts had ever got her anywhere.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



Holtz climbed the stairs to her apartment, swaying only slightly. That was an achievement in itself: the Ghostbusters had just saved the world (or at least a large New York shaped chunk of it) and the city was full of _Thank God, we survived_ type parties. After a few beers, a splash of wine and a cup of something highly experimental she and Abby had synthesised on a dare and which may or may not be fit for human consumption, jury’s still out, the others called it a night, Patty going to crash at her brother’s house while Abby took Gilbert and their brilliantly white flowing manes back to her place.

Her place which, Holtz knew, had only one bedroom, knowing wink. She held up a pretend microphone and put on a deep newscaster voice. “We’ll keep you updated with more on this story as it develops.”

Not that it necessarily meant they were headed to Bone City. There was a whole messy thing between them, their book and the time after the book and the part where maybe literally jumping into hell to save your best buddy could go a little way towards solving her abandonment issues just as long as you both talked and processed your emotions, UGH. Either way, Holtz knew enough to keep her distance until they sorted that mess out for themselves, so she’d waved them off and started to walk back alone.

At some point, although she was a little fuzzy on details like _when_ and _where_ and _what kind of place is so desperate for customers that it opens its kitchen on a night like this_ , she’d stopped for tacos. The takeout bag bumped against her leg with every step – up to the third floor, along the hall, come to a stop in front of her door while she gave herself the old TSA style rub-down in search of her keys. No luck. Holtz gripped the bag handles with her teeth so she could use both hands to rifle through her pockets.

She didn’t touch the door. She KNEW she wasn’t touching it.

But the door swung open.

“Huh,” she mumbled around the plastic bag. “Well, ’is is ominous.”

Holtz stepped inside, hitting the light switch with her elbow, and set the food down. “Helloooooooooo? Anybody home?”

No one answered. There was nothing out of place either, from the half-empty bag of chips on her coffee table to the possibly not 100% technically, legally _un_ -stolen microcentrifuge they’d liberated from good ol’ Kenny P. Higgins. Even the small Nutter Butter pot where she kept loose coins and a few bills seemed untouched, which would probably rule out any human thief.

But Toto, they weren’t in Kansas anymore, were they?

Behind her, the door closed. The lock fastened with a loud click and Holtz took a deep breath.

“OK,” she said, grinning. “Come to mama, my sweet little spooks and bugaboos. Whatcha got for me?”

The room stayed quiet.

Which, now she came to think of it…

Hold

The

Frickin’

Phone

!

Her apartment - on this _post averted-apocalypse bacchanalia_ , this night of REVELRY and HEDONISM and oh so very loud renditions of _Lemonade_ , in the midst of this celebration to end all celebrations – should not have been this quiet. But even the normal soundtrack of apartment life – passing traffic, her upstairs neighbor walking around, the occasional burst of agitated Greek conversation from Mr and Mrs Papantoniou next door – was absent.

“Awesome,” she whispered. Some kind of barrier, a high-intensity electromagnetic pulse generated by a vortex producing a bubble of plasma which would absorb any noise from the outside world.

Two points to consider, then. On the plus side, Abby is going to flip her _nut_ to finally have confirmation of the SIPC (Spectre Induced Plasma Channel) effect, she’s gonna order in ice cream cake and balloons, she’s gonna take out a full page ad in the Times and, fresh off the heels of a _oh by the way, ghosts totally do exist and are probably going to rip off all your faces_ revelation, they might even print it this time.

On the other, if she’s right – and of course she’s right, she’s crazy but she’s also crazy good at what she does– then absorbing the sound of the outside world also means absorbing all sound from within, ergo the screaming and the calling for help Holtz isn’t currently engaged in?

Wouldn’t be the least bit effective anyway.

Holtz shrugged off her jacket and let it drop to the floor. She walked, slowly, towards her kitchen, and if her path _happened_ to put some big heavy furniture with lots of potential handholds in between her and the window then sue her, it had been a long day.

“Not going shy on me, are you? A little scaredy ghost?”

And really, it wasn’t like _not_ taunting ghosts had ever got her anywhere, was it?

The whole window incident had left her cell phone in a bit of a _smashed into a thousand pieces_ type mess and shouting real loud was probably useless but she still had a landline next to the toaster oven. Holtz took another step and reached towards it. The phone sparked, once, and the handset leaped towards the ceiling. With an appreciative whistle, Holtz spun on her heel to get a better look only to stop, lips pursed mid- _whoOOOOoooooooo._

Floating, wreathed in blue smoke, the ghost looked down at Holtzmann.

After a brief, very brief and totally professional moment of staring, Holtz smiled back. “I know you,” she said. “The Aldridge chica. With all the—" Holtz mimed the projectile vomiting “—stuff.”

If the Aldridge ghost understood – heck, if it could even hear her full stop – it gave no indication. It just hung in the air before her, face as soft as it had been right before it horked several buckets of ectoplasm over Gilbert.

Then it raised a thin translucent hand, beckoning Holtz closer.

She didn’t have her proton pack. It was back with the others, locked away because SOMEbody (cough, Gilbert) had argued that running around with untested and slightly unstable nuclear accelators strapped to their backs was for ghost-related emergencies _only_ and, annoyingly, Patty and Abby had proved themselves to be way too persuadable. If Holtz got out of this alive, they would be having WORDS and also GESTURES and MINIATURE PROTON MULTITOOLS FOR ALL, but with no pack and no way of calling for help, her options were looking pretty thin on the ground.

(Didn’t necessarily mean the _ghost_ knew that, though.)

“Loving the telekinesis,” she said, straightening up and giving her shoulders an experimental roll. Loosey-goosey, relaxed, able to go with the flow no matter how many windows she was tossed out of, that was the goal. “Wanna tell me how it’s done?”

A smile. Toothy and way too big so her mouth pulled away from her - OK, not  _skin,_ but whatever ghostly equivalent was supposed to be covering her ghostly bones,  _that_ \- and just hung there. Jaw bone out. _So_ gross. So _cool_.

A sudden shift in bariometric pressure was her only warning before she felt something, and by something she meant CLEARLY THE GHOST, that was never in doubt, but it felt grammatically weird to claim that the ghost was doing the dragging and the subsequent _slamming into walls_  when said ghost wasn't even touching her. Hadn't acknowledged the movement at all, apart from changing exactly which area of the room it was directing that creepy smile at.

The air rushed out of her lungs and she sagged back, letting the wall do the lion's share of the holding her upright part for now. She shoved her fingers in her ears and wiggled them about, trying to make them un-pop. " _Unfff._ Gonna take that as a 'maybe'." 

Cold fingers - read: something that  _felt_ like fingers - tipped her chin up so that the back of Holtz's head bounced lightly against the wall. Ghost lady watched the whole thing, her own hands neatly folded before her waist, with as much emotion as a lump of provolone, even as the air around Holtz's throat grew heavier, tighter. Not enough that she choked to death. Just enough to make it hurt.

Then she could breathe freely again but the circle of localised pressure was still on her skin, probing at the gap between her shirt collar and, uh,  _not_ her shirt. Not clothing at all, in fact. Holtz's cheeks burned. One of her shirt buttons, the first one she'd closed, was pushed into her sternum, and Holtz wiggled to get away. "Certified Ghostbuster here," she muttered. "Let's, uh, table the bad touch until after we send you back to hell."

By increments, the touch lessened until only a faint tingling was left. Still in a less than PG area but Holtz wasn't going to pretend to be an expert in old-timey manners; maybe that was still polite back when women couldn't vote and the crinoline was the height of fashion. All the rage amongst the high society of the time: go out to the theatre, sit around with your rich lady friends touching one another in the boobage. And then, set loose on the city after their first meeting, BIG oops in hindsight, Aldridge Manor's resident phantom was just trying to say a polite _hello, I do not want to eat your face, by the way your window is lovely and, keyword, INTACT and I shall do nothing to change that_.

Was it negotiation? Communication? Holtz wasn't sure. Their working theory, before SOME jackass had gone and blown several Rowan-shaped holes in both it and OH YEAH THE VERY FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE, had been that ghosts were incapable of higher order thought processes, maybe even thought itself. Stuck in a way of seeing the world that had made sense to them when they were alive, they couldn't learn new things, couldn't understand  _why_ and  _how_ the world was changing around them. Worse still, they would react to the world as though they still had bodies capable of feeling all that messy human stuff.

 _Worse_ because the bodily urges driving them were permanently cut off from the actual, factual physical bodies they thought they were trying to satiate. Eat and eat all you like; if you've got no belly, you aren't ever gonna feel full.

Wait.

Hold on. Pause. Stick with that thought, chase it down the rabbit hole to its conclusion. 

 _Think_ , Holtzmann.

Stuff you felt with your body: Hunger. Pain. Panic. Exhaustion.

Lust.

As if to underscore the  _ding ding, ten points to our contestant from Nassau County_ sensation, the touch on her chest began to travel: up the length of her neck, curving gently around her jaw, and coming to a rest at the corner of her mouth. A kiss.

Holtz was not, in general, prone to silence. It was even more rare that she could be shocked into speechlessness; she needed to say something suitably historic, or at least witty and incisive enough that her stupid underreacting would-be-seductress would be equally off-balance for the next bit. The potential sex-with-a-ghost-bit. The for the first time EVER in human and ex-human history, about to bump uglies with a thing that goes bump in the night bit. Crossing new scientific frontiers. Discovery. Adventure. The whole shebang, emphasis on the bang.

"Buh _WHAAAAAAAATT_?!!"

Nailed it.

After the initial realization, though, Holtz had to admit that a) she totally  _would_ , hello, and b) Abby was going to be so jealous that she wasn't the first Ghostbuster to knock floating ethereal boots. A Ghostbanger, if you will. Behind that, too, there was point c), something she didn't so much _think_   as she did  _feel_ in the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip and her weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, and her hips twitched ever so slightly.

Maybe the ghost saw, maybe it didn't care, but the telekinetic exploration resumed with a bit more force, tugging Holtz's shirt free from her jeans, and it seemed to be go time. So Holtz went. 

"You want this off, huh?" Holtz unfastened the buttons and then rolled her shoulders back, a dancer's move, so her shirt slipped down the length of her arms. Where it got stuck on both her wrists at the same time, and she had to squirm in a distinctly less calculated way to undo her cuffs and drop her shirt on the floor. She kicked off her shoes, taking loose aim at the couch -  _she shoots, she scores, she scores again_ \- and her trousers followed until she was standing in her underwear. Holtz waggled her eyebrows. "Like what you see?"

The answer, it seemed, was yet another look of bland disinterest.

Holtz hated to admit it but the lack of reaction - watching, wanting, without caring as though Holtz could've been anyone else in the city, as though she didn't even need to be a  _person_ at all, just a thing to be used and discarded and broken?

It was kinda doing it for her.

Pissing her off too, but that seemed a very distant second, so Holtz reached behind her back to unsnap her bra and pull it off, twirling it round her fingers. The other strap pinged through the ghost's torso, dispersing the thin blue light without seeming to do her any harm. Interesting. Not the most urgent thing on her proverbial plate, though, but Holtz filed that one away for later experimentation/creation of PROTON UNDERWEAR for emergencies such as this.

"Lesdothis."

Which only really left the question of how.

Figuring that she'd got THIS far, she might as well go the distance, Holtz jammed her thumbs down the front of her briefs and went to pull them off when two bubbles of cold air formed around each of her breasts. Palming them, she realized after a second, playing with temperature and pressure like, well, a scientist jabbing at her experiment. Not one of the cool sciences, though, something lame like biology, and Holtz was just her rodenty test subject, squeaking and being probed...

The metaphor was maybe a bit more literal than she first assumed.

She was wet. She didn't need to touch herself to know that much; the inside of her thighs could have doubled as a waterslide, and Holtz submitted to more spectral inspection, letting her hips move back and forth, feeling herself grow hotter and hotter. The motion pushed her cunt in and out of a cold spot, flicking her between _chilly October air_ and raging heat, and the ghost still looked at her like she was nothing.

Holtzmann was  _eccentric_ to those who wanted something from her;  _crazy_ to those who didn't like her. Most people settled somewhere around  _weird_. They all reacted to her and Holtz in turn loved to poke and prod until she got a reaction. It was a novelty to be looked at like that, Shania Twain  _That don't impress me much_ in Aldridge's eyes, like a playground taunt,  _Come on, Holtzmann, is that all you got?_ People didn't do that, as a general rule. They'd ask her to tone it down, be less Holtzmann, make herself small and quiet and normal, and here she was, where her  _too much_ weirdness still wasn't enough to provoke Aldridge into action.

She could come from this alone, she thought.

Before she had the chance, Aldridge drifted forwards until she was crowded against Holtzmann, and then closer still until Holtz was surrounded by her, _inside_ her. Wayyyyyyyyy more  _inside_ than she was accustomed to. Her hair stood on end. Every inch of her skin coursed with energy, not quite her own but keyed into some higher frequency that Holtz couldn't seem to tap into. Her pulse roared in her ears.

"Not," Holtz said through gritted teeth. "Ohhhhhh, not enough patented Holtzmann bowchickawowow for you?"

But her ghost made this noise. Not a sexy noise. A shout stuffed full of all that desperate, scratching anger; long years in the dark - so cold - so alone - so small and horrible and human, until she  _wasn't_ \- that Holtz closed her eyes to stop herself from thinking: _There you are._

From thinking:  _I know you_.

Major bonerkiller. Feelings. Affinity. Junk, all of it, but Holtz was feeling generous so she pressed one finger against her clit, through her underwear. "Here," she said. "Telekinese  _this_."

Aldridge didn't. At least, not the same way she had before, from a distance. She moved her own hand down to cover Holtz's, still surrounding her so her arm dipped inside her own torso to reach. Holtz had just enough time to add _heightened sensitivity_ to the notes she was mentally composing before the waistband of her briefs twisted, dragging the damp fabric off to one side so the elastic pinched her hip. The pain barely registered, and even then Holtz suspected it was only the proximity to those other parts of her anatomy taking the lion's share of her attention that did it. In that moment, a bear could have been in the process of mauling her left arm and her focus still wouldn't have drifted from the action between her legs. Lit up like frigging Times Square, fornication's formication, every nerve ending jangling in the rush to inform her neocortex.

Two fingers pushed inside, catching her by surprise, and she bit down. Blood filled her mouth, warm and coppery, and Aldridge's hand pushed up,  _through_ Holtz, through her skin and bone and viscera. Skipped the traditional erogenous zones to hit the parts of Holtz's body that only a surgeon could reach, like she could pull her apart and turn her inside out. She could. There wouldn't be a thing Holtz could do about it.

Already close, it wasn't the pain in her mouth or the sensation in her gut but the sudden feeling of helplessness that tipped her over the edge.

Her orgasm was quick and untidy, a full-body spasm. Her twitching leg caught the coffee table, sending it toppling to the floor.

_"Hey!"_

A muffled banging. It took Holtz a moment to place the source of the noise - Mr Lee, downstairs neighbor, keen to introduce the business end of his broom to his ceiling, not a big fan of Holtzmann's if the notes he kept leaving in her mailbox were any indication.

_"Quiet down up there! What the hell kind of time is this to be moving furniture?!"_

There was something strange about that. Sluggishly, Holtz straightened up and retrieved her fingers. They smelled of ozone and - very faintly - like fruit left out to rot. 

_"One more peep outta you, I go straight to building management! You see if I don't!"_

"Y-Yeah, OK, fine," she called. "I tripped. My bad."

Energy depleted, Holtz plopped to the floor which prompted another round of banging on the ceiling from below. Her bottom lip stung. Holtz prodded at it with her tongue, feeling the blood rush to the surface. Sounds trickled through slowly as the outside world reasserted itself, and Holtz stared at the carpet until she stopped shaking, counting off the footsteps, voices, car horns, the opening bars of  _Thriller_ , and beneath it all, her heart hammering away inside her chest: _alive; alive; alive_.


End file.
